


Estaye

by dalliancee



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Depression, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Minor Character Death, Postpartum Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 12:48:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6052201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dalliancee/pseuds/dalliancee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya wants to be happy. He's just not so sure if he still deserves anything like that anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Estaye

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not entirely familiar with how all the KGB system goes so if any of the spies' missions don't seem to tally with reality, just.. do me a favor and give me some leeway omg. And oh, urm, slight OOC-ness. I know Illya's way of speaking English is not like this, his way of phrasing his sentences is a lil different but I kept on butchering everything he says whenever I try to so... here's a weak-willed author.

 

 

“There’s no room for negotiations, Illya. I’m only letting you off on the accord that you saved me once. Do not push it. Come back into the car, right now.“

  


Illya doesn’t. He tries his best to not panic, as he begins to walk to the building he was last knocked out in. He ends up panicking anyway, when not a single solution pops into his head and his hands begin to shake, again. Or maybe they never stopped shaking, ever since they told him that Napoleon and Eric are still in the damned building that’s going to get blown up.

  


He couldn’t picture himself losing Napoleon. He couldn’t imagine Gaby losing her husband and the father of their unborn child.

  


This is not happening. 

  


He stops his steps, and turns to look at Turner, who’s standing outside of car now, staring at him. Turner isn’t _that_ heartless, Illya thinks, and thinks again, before raising a hand to point a finger at him when he speaks. Turner has always been grateful over the fact Illya had a chance to turn him in to the KGB but didn’t, and helped to clean his slate instead.

  


He can get leverage over this.

  


“You’re either letting them come out with me, or I’m going back there to be with them.”

  


He doesn’t let his words tremble, he doesn’t let his ex-comrade know how fucking scared he is, and he doesn’t let himself pay attention to just how fast his heart is racing. 

  


“You’re not thinking. The bombs are going off in ten minutes’ time. Illya, let’s go.”

  


Illya feels his throat clamping up as he pictures the building turned into nothing but dust and ruins, with bodies, _bodies_ which are unmoving and.. dead. 

  


“We will never tell a soul what we found out about your boss's plans. His ass can continue to be corrupted for all I care, just-“

  


“Seven minutes left, Illya.” Turner says as he looks away, like his decision is fixed. “I have a meeting I can’t be late to.”

  


“Fuck your meeting,” Illya spits and clenches at his fists, seeing red all over as he stomped his way to where Turner is and grabs the collars of his shirt tightly. That man doesn’t know what he’s about to lose. “If it weren’t for me, you’d either still be working as an agent, or be a dead man who’s swiped from the surface of the world by KGB as they empty a bullet into your fucking head. You _owe_ me, Turner. You fucking owe me-“

  


Illya’s so close, so close to dropping to his knees before Turner shoves his hands away, breathes out, and says. 

  


“Pick one.” Turner doesn’t let Illya get a chance to intercept as he slips back into the car. “I have to answer to my boss no matter what — this is all I can do. Say a name, and I’ll find someone to get him out. Continue to fucking argue with me again, and I can do nothing for you. You only have yourselves to blame for getting caught.” 

  


He doesn’t say a word as he grabs onto the car door for support, the spot beneath his chest suddenly feeling so tight, it hurts. It hurts like he has already lost someone, and he knows.

  


“Illya? Five minutes.”

  


He knows who he is going to lose. 

  


  


  
  


  


  


“Napoleon,” He says. “Save him, Turner. Please.”

  


  


  


—————————— >>>>> ——— >>>> ——— >>>>>> ————————————

  


  


  


  


“Let me,” Gaby says, her voice shaking but her decision firm. She has been putting up a strong front ever since she reached the hospital and Illya knows, he knows her too well to not notice her act and it's just fucking tearing him apart as he watches her hand gives a weak rub to where her stomach is, the swell that was almost unnoticeable now blaring obvious. “I don’t need you to treat me with kid gloves now, Illya.”

  


“The sight might be-“

  


“He’s my husband,” She raises her point as her jaw visibly tightens. “I need to do this at the very least. Nobody knows him better than I do.”

  


Illya lets her into the morgue after that.

  


He doesn’t accompany her inside, and Illya can keep telling himself it’s all because Gaby requested to be alone, but he knows. He knows.

  


He can’t deal with the fact that he’s the one who caused Eric to die. He killed his comrade, his friend, and his best-friend’s husband.

  


All because— 

  


“Illya.” 

  


Napoleon’s voice sounds strained as he limps his way over, and Illya gets an overwhelming urge to drag the other in for a tight embrace, to feel that the other’s actually still right here, safe, and wasn’t in a risk of being gone for good just hours ago, but he doesn’t. He discreetly looks away instead, and pretends to be looking for a bench for Napoleon to sit on so he doesn't further aggravate his injuries. 

  


He ends up finding one for real though, some distance away from the room that Gaby is in, right beside a vending machine that sells hot coffee. He makes sure he doesn’t have any eye-contacts with Napoleon as he proceeds to purchase one, all just to stall time before he has to talk with the other who obviously looks like he wants answers. 

  


Illya can’t give him that.

  


“You didn’t come to the ward at all.” Napoleon begins to talk anyway, even before the coffee’s done, like he knows all about Illya’s plan of stalling. “The nurses said I was alone all the time, even before Gaby has reached.”

  


Coffee, Illya makes himself to focus on, as he pretends to not know what’s about to come and picks the paper cup of caffeine into his own grip, as slowly as he can before he turns to face Napoleon.

  


And when he does, he freezes.

  


“You wouldn’t have avoided me if you had nothing to hide.” Napoleon says, and regardless of how calm his tone is as he speaks, the other can’t hide the redness in his eyes and the disappointment that shows so clearly on his face. “… Why, Illya?”

  


Illya watches how the other looks away from him like he should just disappear. 

  


“I’m sorry-“

  


“You abandoned us,” Napoleon suddenly raises his voice as he stands up, seething with anger when he pushes a finger accusingly at Illya’s chest. “You left us to die.”

  


No.

  


_No_ , Illya almost shouts, in a sudden hurry to explain himself as he’s slowly getting where Napoleon’s coming from. He’s nowhere to be seen when Napoleon and Eric are locked up in the building. He’s nowhere to be seen when people decided to drop all their weapons and flee the building. He’s still nowhere to be seen when everything gets blown up into thin air, and only shows up in the hospital an hour later, unscathed. 

  


_I would never do that to you, never to you._

  


But he doesn’t, and continues to keep his trap shut as Napoleon seems half agitated yet half hopeful at the same time like Illya has some godly reason behind his disappearance - yet Illya continues to stay silent, before looking away as a silent way to plead guilty to whatever Napoleon's accusing him of.

  


“… I can’t believe this,” Napoleon whispers, and he sounds so, so broken Illya feels broken too.

  


Napoleon turns away and doesn’t talk to Illya, not at all as they waited for Gaby in the corridor that suddenly feels ten times colder. Illya had foolishly thought it was the worst feeling he could experience ever, when he helped Gaby out of the car earlier and felt that she was trembling.

  


This, it felt like a knife his gut and Illya should hate Napoleon, he should do so if it’s going to make him feel better about admitting to a sin he would never do but he doesn’t. He just lets himself steal glimpses at Napoleon who doesn’t seem like he’s going to look up anymore, and blinks away the redness in his own eyes before he exhales a shaky breath of relief quietly in amidst of all the heavy emotions he’s going through. 

  


  


  


  


  


  


_Thank god you’re still alive._

  


  


  


  


  


—————————— >>>>> ——— >>>> ——— >>>>>> ————————————

  


  


  


  


  


“Gaby fell asleep,” Illya looks up from where he’s sitting at and watches as Napoleon makes his way down the stairs slowly. He notices how the other is careful to not look at him, like the mere sight of Illya will be too revolting for him to handle. “I will take care of her — you can go now.”

  


Illya however, lets himself look at Napoleon more, like any moment from now can be their last together. 

  


“I want to be here for Gaby.”

  


“… Who are you to stay here, Illya?” It has been years since Napoleon has used that condescending tone on him. He honestly forgot how vicious the other’s words can sting if he puts his heart into it. “Do you honestly think she will still want you around after what you have done?”

  


Illya stills.

  


Truth is, he doesn’t think anyone will ever want him around anymore. He stays, and wants to stay, all because he doesn’t want to be alone with himself. The memories will come haunting him, and he doesn’t want to face that right now. He wants to help Gaby, who shouldn’t be left alone right now and he wants to stay right here, so… 

  


So he can stay with Napoleon a little longer. 

  


“Get out,” Napoleon says, so softly Illya feels his heart twist. He doesn’t move, and just keeps looking at Napoleon. Just a little more, he thinks. “Get out!”

  


Illya grabs onto Napoleon’s arm the instant the American tries to hurry his way over to where the door is, and he can’t say that he’s surprised when his hand gets shoved away within a split second. He’s not even surprised anymore when he sees the expression that Napoleon doesn’t bother to hide — those blue eyes which were once full of nothing but love to him now harbor so much disappointment and anger. 

  


But the tears caught Illya off caught. 

  


“Napoleon,” Illya whispers.

  


“Why aren’t you defending yourself? Why aren’t you telling me that there’s a reason behind all this why are you just— why?” Napoleon’s voice is tight as he wipes at his eyes messily by using the bottom of his palms. “What did you do, Illya? Tell me, please.”

  


There’s an opening. 

  


Illya knows he can take this chance to tell Napoleon the truth. Napoleon will understand him, like he always does, and maybe then they can finally hold each other because god, Illya wants to feel the other against him after coming so close to losing the man he’d used to sleep next to every night— 

  


God, he’s already using the past tense. 

  


“Illya, say something.”

  


“… Turner was a friend of mine in KGB,” Illya begins, and finds himself looking away the instant he sees the expression on Napoleon’s face. Don’t look so hopeful, Napoleon, Illya thinks to himself as he clenches at his fists. There’s nothing you want to hear right here. “I saved him years ago… and so, he gave me an out.”

  


Illya looks down when he accidentally lets a few tears slip.

  


“I took it.” He pretends to admit. “I left Eric to die. I left… you, to die.”

  


Napoleon doesn’t react to his words. 

  


He just stands at where he is, and stills for a long while. Illya doesn’t stay to await for his reaction either, deciding he should just do the other a favor and leave, before Gaby wakes up to see the both of them in tears. Her emotions will be affected, and so will the baby who’s due four months’ time. He doesn’t think he can bring himself to bring more harm to Gaby anymore, and he doesn’t have any more shame left to continue staying here like he hasn’t caused Eric to die.

  


“I’ll come and see Gaby some other time,” 

  


Illya says after rubbing at his face and pushes himself to start walking to where the door is. This might be the last time he’ll get to see Napoleon, he can’t help but remember, and he should really ignore whatever his mind is saying and go to where his car is parked at and don’t look back, but he doesn’t. 

  


Illya turns back just in time to see Napoleon lifting his head to stare at him with eyes that are far too cold, despite the redness that speaks of the emotions he has just been through.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


“You’re _dead_ to me, Illya Kuryakin.”

  


  


  


—————————— >>>>> ——— >>>> ——— >>>>>> ————————————

  


  


  


The last time Illya was at home, he was with Napoleon. They were both preparing to head out for a briefing from Waverly, about a corrupted politician who covered his tracks too neatly to be true. Neither of them knew what was to come, and if Illya had known what would become of them, he wouldn’t have let Napoleon go with just a peck to his temple. He would hold other close, so close that at the very least, Napoleon would have a slightest idea of just how much Illya loves him. 

  


He loves Napoleon so much, he chose to sacrifice a friend of his who he was beginning to regard as a brother. He loves Napoleon so much, he made Gaby lose her husband. 

  


He loves Napoleon so much, _he scares himself._

  


It scares Illya that even now, there’s still a part of him that’s wavering. A part of him that still wants to speed back to where Gaby’s place is, and explain everything to Napoleon so that they can at least work something out. They could’ve still been together if Illya would just admit to the truth.

  


Napoleon would understand, right? 

  


Illya drops the luggage bag onto the floor before turning to look at where the closet is. The left side of it is fully occupied by his clothes, while the right side is, with Napoleon’s suits hanging in it, neatly ironed. Everything looks the same — if he tries hard enough to lie to himself, he can tell himself that nothing has changed and that this is still their home. 

  


It’s still their home that has a neighbourhood with a stunning sense of noise control which won’t stop waking them up in the middle of the night when poker games get too exciting for them. It’s still their home that Napoleon spent hours, and hours decorating, with a few paintings he had stolen years ago but would never admit to. It’s still their home that has such terrible heaters, they always have to stack carpets on top of their blanket during winter as they hook their legs together to share heat.

  
It’s still their home, and Illya finds it too hard to leave it all behind.

 

Maybe if he tries even harder for Napoleon to understand, there will be nothing else to lie to himself about. Maybe everything will be alright — if it isn’t on the expanse of Eric’s life. 

  


He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to be with Napoleon and love him the same way he did anymore. Not when he’ll always remember the options he had, and selfishly picked. How is a man who has sacrificed another’s life supposed to be worthy of love, and being happy anymore? Illya doesn’t think he can forgive himself, ever — a man like him just doesn’t deserve _any_ of it.

  


So he doesn’t find Napoleon and hold him tight as he explains everything. So he lets Napoleon carry on thinking he’s a coward who abandoned him because he isn’t wrong. After all, he is running away.

  


He is abandoning Napoleon right now.

  


He empties every single clothing that’s inside the left side of the closet into his luggage bag, packs everything he has to, and leaves without looking back.

  


(He leaves his key beneath the mat outside that reads ‘ _I’m home now_ ’.)

  


  


  


  


  


—————————— >>>>> ——— >>>> ——— >>>>>> ————————————

  


  


  


  


“Chamomile tea?” 

  


“The lady told me it will help you sleep better,” Illya simply explains as he pours the contents of the teapot into the cup carefully. “You haven’t been resting well after all, Gaby. It’s bad for both you and your child.”

  


Gaby makes a faint noise of acknowledge, and goes back to fiddling with rusty tuners and loosened wires she has dedicated herself to replacing. She has started to bring back rusty and old appliances to breathe life back into ever since she found out that she’s expecting. In the past, she usually worked on cars whenever she’s free, but Eric was disapproving of her continuing to do so for the child — hence, he came up with this idea. 

  


It’s a radio this time. 

  


She used to drag Illya in to dance with her whenever she managed to fix one — she’d bring music back into the small box, and she’d take Illya by the hand before trying to spin him around despite their drastic height difference. 

  


Her face would be then glowing with joy and happiness, as she laughed at how awkward he will forever be when it comes to dancing.

  


Illya misses Gaby’s smile.  

  


“You can do this later. Drink this before it gets cold—“

  


She places the plier down before lifting her head up to look at Illya.

  


“Napoleon’s reaching anytime soon.”

  


Illya nearly drops the cup of tea when his hands twitched at the mention of his former partner. It has been three months since he has seen Napoleon — and despite how often they took turns to visit Gaby, they always made sure to be careful so their paths never crossed. 

  


Illya always asked Gaby if anyone’s coming over before he decides to visit — did she do this on purpose? 

  


“Gaby.”

  


“None of you are telling me what happened. He clearly doesn’t want to be around you,” Illya squeezes the cup a little tighter. “And you, too, don’t want to be in the same place as he is. I have enough of you guys taking turns to come here like this is a ward either of you need to make an appointment for, alright? Stay here and we’ll talk. I want to know what happened. Just because you guys split—“

  


The idea of seeing Napoleon again makes Illya giddy, and it’s not in a good way. He doesn’t think he wants to see the other’s eyes cold, piercing eyes staring at him without any ounce of love and care anymore. He doesn’t think he can handle Napoleon brushing him off openly, like his existence no longer matters. 

  


He doesn’t want to remember how he’s dead to Napoleon. 

  


“I’ll be leaving, Gaby. I’ll drop by when work allows me to.” 

  


Illya leaves his seat so hastily, he almost doesn’t hear Gaby when she murmurs,  

  


“I lied.”

  


He stops his steps, and turns.

  


Gaby’s standing now, with her lips pressed together — something she does whenever she tries to contain her emotions. Illya awaits, he knows something’s coming. He doesn’t know what it is, but his heart begins to sink anyway and he braces himself for the impact. 

  


“I forgot to tell Napoleon that you were coming today. He left the instant I told him you’re reaching in five — a part of me was hoping that he would stay, and maybe we three can finally gather together like the old times but no, Illya. There’s no hesitation in his eyes. He didn’t stop to consider about staying. He just drove away, and he looked so, so angered as always whenever your name is mentioned.” Gaby slowly makes her way over to where he is, and holds a side of his arms gently. “Just like how you always looked so apologetic whenever I speak about him. It all makes sense now, I think. How you disappeared for weeks, and didn’t even show up for Eric’s funeral — you guys refused to tell me anything, and insisted on treating me with the kid gloves but I know now, Illya.”

  


She tightens her grip on his arms and looks directly into his eyes.

  


“Something happened that day. Maybe you did something wrong and—” The question hits way too close to home and Illya didn’t even have half the chance to hide the guilt that blares on his face immediately. She inhales when she sees it. He doesn’t know if the realisation that dawns on her face hurts more or the fact that she obviously never suspected this was the reason does. “… Illya, did you play a part in Eric’s death?”

  


The tone she’s using is the exact same one Napoleon used.

  


A broken one that’s filled with disbelief.

  


“I’m so sorry—“

  


She hurls her closed hand across his face, her knuckles digging deep into his cheek when her punch lands fully and accurately.  

  


“I’m really sorry.” 

  


Illya says again as he bites down onto his lips, and ignores the ache that’s stinging strongly as he looks at Gaby. She just shakes his head, like she’s giving up on him, and a part of Illya’s screaming inside, begging her to not to, but he just stands still and nods when she whispers with her eyes wet, “Goodbye, Illya.” 

  


  


—————————— >>>>> ——— >>>> ——— >>>>>> ————————————

  


  


  


He has been travelling. Minor operations that KGB require help allowed him to do so — fortunately. Everything’s much more foreign that way, and nothing in the places he chose to go reminded him of what he used to have with his family. It’s good, it’s manageable. Illya can get used to this.

  


Working alone. Being alone.

  


He doesn’t think he can work with anyone else, either, ever since U.N.C.L.E got disbanded. Wavily can continue to insist that they are all just on a break, but everyone knows. Neither Napoleon nor Gaby will ever be around him willingly again. The most he can do, and has been doing, is to call Waverly from time to time to ask about them. 

  


He did the same when he received news that Gaby had gone into labor, even if everything within him was telling him to visit. He left the hospital before he could find out the ward she’s resting in, and called Waverly on his way back to his hotel. 

  


_“Ava’s a pretty name,_ ” Illya remembered telling Waverly who tried to convince him to take a look at Gaby’s daughter himself who’s so beautiful and adorable, mere photos and descriptions wouldn’t do her justice. 

  


Illya didn’t, as always.

  


This time, he thinks he’ll do just the same. Or he can be courageous for a change this time, because it’s been too long and frankly speaking? Illya misses them a little way too much.

He has lost count of how long he has been outside the house. It shouldn’t be that hard, he thinks as he looks at the door he has attempted to knock on countless times. At most, Gaby will answer the door and be distant. 

  


He can handle distant.

  


Illya just wants to know how she and her daughter have been. 

  


“I can do it,” He utters to himself and ignores how his hand’s twitching as he raises it lightly. “I just have to—“

  


He drops his hand the instant he starts to hear soft noises over the door, like a conversation is ongoing, and can’t help but to take a step backwards when he realizes who’s speaking, as the voice gets louder. _Napoleon’s close_ , Illya panics to himself, all determination he has fed himself earlier rotting away as he backtracks, the fastest way he can and takes cover behind the fences of Gaby’s neighbour hurriedly, before he gets spotted by the american who’s known to be observant. 

  


“Just awhile, Gaby. I’ll be back soon.” 

  


Illya hears Napoleon speak, and feels the insides of his stomach churning. This has been exactly why he’s been so set on being away — he knows, oh he knows. It’s going to be tough to leave now that the other has been this close. 

  


What he doesn’t hear is Gaby’s response. He doubts she ever bothered to answer in the first place, and frankly speaking, Illya isn’t sure if he feels relieved or disappointed about not getting to hear her voice. 

  


The one thing he’s sure he feels, is how his stomach sinks when Napoleon stops in his tracks, some distance away from where he is, instead of heading straight to where his car is and god, Illya holds his breath unknowingly when the american casts a glance in his direction. 

  


Illya knows Napoleon know.

  


There’s silence, an exhale, and then a pause before he hears the other leaves. 

  


  


  


  


  


—————————— >>>>> ——— >>>> ——— >>>>>> ————————————

  


  


  


Illya crashes into everyone who gets in his way, the common courtesy within him stripped into nothing but dust as he runs, despite how bad his legs are wobbling and forces himself to continue barging his way through the corridor. 

  


He runs, and _runs_ , before his body just gives it all up the instant he sees Napoleon sitting on the floor with his face in his hands, his shoulders slouched, his usual poise nowhere to be seen.

  


Napoleon will never carry himself that way. 

  


Unless- 

  


_It can’t be_ , Illya thinks to himself and ignores the coldness that squeezes at his heart frighteningly when he drops to his knees, his body no longer have any more ounce of strength left within as he begins to hear the broken noises that Napoleon is trying to stifle now that he’s this close. Illya doesn’t think anything can hurt more than what he’s feeling at the moment as he raises a hand to Napoleon’s shoulder. 

 

 

The world’s playing a trick on him. Everything’s a dream. 

 

 

This isn’t true, because _it can’t be._

 

 

The american looks up, and Illya holds his breath as he prepares himself—  

 

 

Napoleon shakes his head. 

  


— But there’s no way he can prepare himself for anything like this. There’s no way anyone can prepare themselves for a loss like this. There’s no way Illya will ever be ready for this.

  


Gaby’s _gone_ , and so is Ava. 

  


“Napoleon,” Illya breathes when the other stands up unsteadily, and hears his own voice shake while he stills, mind in a deep haze and his heart painfully numb when he takes in the sight of Napoleon’s sunken and trembling frame and remembers that Gaby won’t be here anymore to hug it out of him. “Napoleon — where are you going?”

  


“To be alone,” Napoleon says, and his voice sounds so frail, Illya finds himself getting to his feet immediately, but fights down the strong urge to stop the american in his steps (he knows the tone Napoleon’s using; he’d be insane to leave him alone right now) and just watches.

  


He holds himself back, and pretends it doesn’t hurt like a blade to his guts as he lets Napoleon go.  


 

It takes a good long five seconds of just watching for Illya to decide that it’s fucked up that he has to do so.

  


“… Napoleon,” Illya calls out to, and he doesn’t wait for a response. He doesn’t wait for the american to stop at his steps, and he doesn’t wait for him to pause, before deciding to ignore whatever he hears.

  


 He picks up his steps, and rushes to Napoleon’s side so he can drag the other close for a tight hug. 

  


The other does fight back, he does. Illya has been expecting it, ( _‘don’t, i can’t be around you right now_ ’), but that doesn’t stop him for wrapping his arms around Napoleon tighter as he whispers _‘let it out’_ repeatedly to the other who lashes back and shoves at his chest. 

  


He holds on, Illya holds on so tight like he has always wanted to, till Napoleon loses the strength to fight and just let it out.

  


They cry, and they cry _together_.

  


  


  


  


—————————— >>>>> ——— >>>> ——— >>>>>> ————————————

  


  


  


Illya stills the instant he hears music coming out from the worn down box he has spent the last three hours trying to put back together, instead of taking it back indoors where the heavy rain can’t reach them. The radio’s working; it’s no longer a rusty device that’s chucked into the corner, everybody too busy dealing with reality to gear it back into working condition again. Illya would’ve done the same, too tired from being exhausted with reality if he hadn’t recognised it to be the exact same radio Gaby was trying to fix the last time they spoke. 

  


_“That habit of hers stopped long time ago,”_ Illya recalls Napoleon saying when he dragged it out to the backyard with all the tools Gaby had left behind, when she still wanted to fix forsaken appliances and devices. The idea just seems so sour, like a thorn pressing down at his heart which Illya can’t get rid of. 

  


Gaby stopped breathing life back into broken things, before deciding that she no longer wanted to do the same for herself too, and took Ava with her.

  


That idea pricks. It pins his heart down so uncomfortably, Illya pretends that fixing the radio would be akin to fixing himself, as if Gaby’s still here and this is her way of wrapping her soft arms around him which always kept him warm regardless of situations. 

  


And now that music’s finally playing in the radio, Illya should feel warm in his heart all over again, but he doesn’t.

  


He feels much colder instead as he recalls how Gaby used to make him dance with her to the newly fixed radio or music player, and how he would always pretend to grunt, like he’s annoyed, but had already secretly given in to her request the instant she asked because she’s Gaby, and Illya would never say no to her. 

  


He could never— god, why didn’t he just be brave for once and visited her instead of hiding and relying on Waverly? 

  


“Illya?”

  


He sees better now; the rain’s no longer getting into his eyes. He sees Napoleon standing right beside him, holding onto an umbrella that’s sheltering the both of them from the rain that’s pouring down relentlessly, like someone’s actually feeling sorrowful for them (or sympathetic for how pathetic Illya has now become).

  


And god, Illya just wants to tell Napoleon everything, about how he needs a hug, about how miserable he has been feeling inside, but he doesn’t. He just swallows his emotions back in, as always, before he gets to his feet, and offers the other a hand as he asks. 

  


“Dance with me?”

  


Napoleon knows (he _always_ knows), and it hurts too much to look at the way his eyes soften when he says yes, so Illya keeps his sight on the grass, where the tips of their shoes touch as they takes their steps in sync with the music that sounds scratchy against the poorly fixed radio’s speakers, and doesn’t pay attention to how familiar his warmth felt when their hands touched, umbrella and the rain be damned, and doesn’t remind himself of how he has missed being this close to Napoleon. 

  


They have kept their distance despite living in the same house now — too busy with the funeral arrangements, too busy sorting out the things in the house which lingers heavily with Gaby’s presence (Waverly opts for it to be sold if it’s too hurting for them to keep it, and to Illya’s surprise, Napoleon agreed).

  


Illya had wanted to help with everything discreetly, like how he did with Eric’s, but Napoleon voiced out that he could stay if he wanted to ( _‘I won’t rid you of your rights to grief over Gaby, Illya. Stay and help if you want to_ ’). So he did, and they talk, almost as per usual, but Illya doesn’t feel that small leap of joy and softness he got all the time whenever Napoleon spoke to him anymore — he might have, if the centre of their conversations didn’t always surround a topic he knows the both of them are trying to avoid, but have to face, regardless.

  


“I was here; I wanted to visit her.”

  


“I know,” Napoleon says. 

  


“I left because I was a coward, Napoleon. I should’ve gone in to talk to her or something—“ Illya’s voice is suddenly the one that’s sounding scratchy, not the music that’s playing from the radio he’s been eyeing at. “— and now her last memory of me is that ‘Illya has betrayed her’.”

  


Napoleon’s eyes flicker to his own ones, he senses, but Illya’s not quite brave enough to look back yet as he forces a smile that just ends up looking pathetic. 

  


“She’s gone knowing that I did—“ 

  


Illya shakes his head as he ignores Napoleon’s attempts to intercept, his head lowering even more when he feels the sudden surge of guilt and remorse he has been trying to suppress coming back twice as strong instead.

  


Gaby’s gone, and they never got to fix things right.

  


“She’s gone, hating me.”

  


He hears Napoleon say no, over and over again (“ _she can never hate you,_ ”), and the other even shushes him at some point, hands to his cheeks, their dance long forsaken, but Illya knows — and lets the pain cut _deep_ within him as he chokes on this bundle of emotions he doesn’t have the slightest bit of idea on how to resolve before beginning to cry, a series of rasp gasps leaving his lips which sounds too broken to sound like himself (which is accurate, because he will never be his old-self).

And if he still had any more ounce of strength within him to hold himself back, it probably all shattered the instant Napoleon drags him down for an embrace — they ended up a crying mess yet again, like a week ago in the hospital, just holding each other close, all until Napoleon pulls away, gives him a look like he’s hurting over Illya being hurt, frames his face with his hands, and kisses him full on the lips.

  


Illya stills, he stills because it has been so long he had felt any emotions that soft and comforting directed towards him. He’s been harsh on himself, he has deprived himself from speaking to anyone else and this — it’s something so tender, Illya thinks he’ll soon get too attached to, too eagerly for him to get used to solitary once again and so he pulls away, despite the protests he hears in his own head.

  


He’s ready to leave, let the talk about this begin later, until Napoleon whispers _‘it’s okay’,_ and caresses at his cheek so softly, it shakes everything within him as he looks into his former partner’s eyes, and doesn’t see a single spot of hatred and anger which he’s expecting to find. 

  


Napoleon’s stare looks soft instead, like he knows Illya needs this, like he knows he needs this too and it’s everything Illya has been wanting for himself unknowingly.

  


He lets himself get coaxed back into the kiss, and kisses back. 

  


Illya kisses back like it’s going to fix him, because it’s Napoleon, and Napoleon _always_ manages to make him feel better one way or another — but ironically he feels even more tears slip past the corners of his eyes because god, he didn’t know he needed this that badly, it’s almost embarrassing, the way he grabs hold of Napoleon like he’s clinging on the other for his dear life but he knows, and they both know. 

  


It’s been too long. 

  


  


—————————— >>>>> ——— >>>> ——— >>>>>> ————————————

  


  


  


Illya dares not to think of them as making love. 

  


He gets that this isn’t like the old times when they are still in love with each other, and craved for each other with a passion that made things so intimate. This is different, they are just two persons who happen to have each other around as the need for comfort hits. 

  


While they used to kiss without even thinking, the caress of lips nothing more but their favorite way to express their affections casually, they are now deliberately kissing just to stop themselves from thinking, a mere action to keep their minds occupied and nothing more. Illya would’ve felt his heart clench from the drastic difference if not for how the kiss is working — he stops thinking.

  


He doesn’t remember how much he loved feeling Napoleon’s warmth that fits perfectly against his palm, he’s just holding onto something, anything that doesn’t make him feel like drowning, and Napoleon’s only tugging their bodies close because he needs to feel someone close; not that he wants Illya close. 

  


There’s no tender left in between Napoleon’s fingertips and his skin, just a will to touch as Illya feels the other’s hands roam across his body, mapping it out like he has forgotten every inch of it. Illya lets Napoleon explores his body, he welcomes it, while his own hand finds purchase on the both of their cocks, making their sensitive skins drag across each other whenever their bodies push together to coax the desired friction out.

  


It’s only then they breathe, hot airs brushing against their faces as they part from the lips to exhale the noises that demand to be heard, but remain close enough for a quick, almost sloppy kiss whenever an urge surfaces while Illya squeezes down at their cocks as he begins to stroke across their sensitive skins with a pace that’s growing faster gradually.

  


Napoleon inhales sharply as his eyes go shut at the pleasure that surges upwards and presses down at his abdomen, and Illya accidentally allows himself to drink in the sight of his former partner giving into what he’s feeling, with his back arching and his lips loose with quiet noises. It reminds him of the past when he and Napoleon would use to make love, in the bed that scratched the wall at every single thrust Illya’s body did, and Napoleon looked like this; both of his hands would grab at the sides of Illya’s arms as Illya rocked into his body with a steady pace, his breathing quick and his lips parted for the moans to be heard. 

  


It was so intimate, the way Illya would kiss at Napoleon’s ear and whisper things he usually never would out in the public to him, while Napoleon gasped at every single time Illya pushed deep into him, shallow and quick thrusts be gone as all they wanted to do was to just feel each other’s presence, and live in it. 

  


And irony just have a way to work, always, as all they want now is to feel too, but everything has been reduced to a remedy to numb their wounds and nothing more. _It’s not love they are making_ , Illya thinks to himself as he leans forward to press his lips against the outline of Napoleon’s shoulder, and pretends it’s to shush the grunts that are escaping from his throat, and not because he still wants to feel a fragment of what they had before. 

  


_It’s just for comfort._

  


  


  


—————————— >>>>> ——— >>>> ——— >>>>>> ————————————

  


  


Illya packs his bags while Napoleon’s asleep. 

  


He’s quick, leaving a hell lot of things behind (he doesn’t think of Napoleon as one of them, no), and makes sure that everything’s done quietly, so he wouldn’t wake Napoleon up even if he’s sleeping in a different room right now, oblivious to what’s happening.

  


Illya pauses when a pang of guilt hits him, but he doesn’t let it stop him from making his way out of the room as soon as he can, a duffle bag with everything he needs stuffed inside. He needs to leave, and he needs to leave _now_ before he actually manages to convince himself that he finally deserves something good in his life.

  


So he hurries his way across the corridor, past the room he and Napoleon previously spent hours sleeping together in, and forces himself to not look back as he rushes down the staircase. He doesn’t know if he feels happy or regretful when he reaches the door successfully — but he sure as hell feels like his time stopped when he hears footsteps pattering down the staircase, and pauses.

  


Napoleon’s there, just standing right behind him and it takes everything within Illya to not turn back. He twists the door open instead.

  


‘ _Let me leave,’_ Illya hears himself praying as the door swings open, his heart clenching so tight at the same time it’s almost unbearable. He can barely imagine the conversation he has to go through with Napoleon; about what happened, about them and about what they can never get back. He’d rather go, he _wants_ to go and that’s why he’s standing right here, ready to give it all up.

  


Napoleon doesn’t speak, and remains silent despite it seems so clear that Illya has stopped to listen to what he has to say. 

  


It seems like he doesn’t have anything to say after all, Illya realizes, when he hears footsteps once again, and the soft noise of a door closing. Napoleon has decided to let him go, and Illya should feel oddly happy that he actually got what he has been wishing for, but he doesn’t.

  


He feels as though as someone has punched him right in the face, and he laughs. He laughs as he turns to look at the empty stairway, at where Napoleon might’ve been standing at, and lets himself imagine the look that might’ve been on his former’s partner face.

  


Was it an expression that’s filled with disappointment? Was it aghast with disbelief? Was it full of understanding and acceptance towards Illya’s actions or was it just purely sadness that Illya is leaving again? Whatever it is, whatever it might have been,

  


Illya knows it isn’t one that wanted Illya to stay— and god, truth to be told, he had wanted Napoleon to ask him to stay so badly.

  


  


—————————— >>>>> ——— >>>> ——— >>>>>> ————————————

  


  


  


Illya feels though he had been hit by a building when he stirs awake, his mind grouchy and his throat painfully dry. He barely started looking at the place he has ended up in when he notices the person who’s sitting right beside him with his head resting on the bed he’s sleeping in. Illya fights down the urge to run his fingers through that mop of raven locks, and begins to twist in his position instead, stretching an arm for the jug of water which seems so close, but is tragically too far away for him to reach in fact. He ends up wincing out loud instead, when he goes beyond the wound at the side of his abdomen will allow and in a split second, it’s Napoleon’s turn to be awake. 

  


“Illya,” He murmurs, in his barely awake state and it’s almost like the old times, Illya recalls against his wishes and immediately looks away, his hand retracting. “You can’t do that, the doctor said that your wound’s pretty deep; you need ample of rest in order to recover — wait, hold on, I’ll get the doctor right now so he can check on you-“

  


“Napoleon,” Illya forces himself to speak like his heart’s not feeling all sorts of odds from Napoleon’s concern and shakes at his head. “Water first, please.”

  


He tries not to stare too much as Napoleon abides, almost immediately (he presses the alarm for the doctor first regardless) and fetches him some ice chips that soothes the dull ache in his throat effectively. It’s only after his eyes make contact with Napoleon’s that he asks for more ice chips, just anything that will prolong the time they have before they speak. 

 

 

It’s been half a year since Illya left; it’s been half a year since Napoleon let him go. 

  


He doesn’t know if Napoleon feels alright ever since — he knows he hasn’t. 

  


“It seems that the CIA has officially taken over your operation right now,” Napoleon suddenly says as he rests the paper cup aside, and doesn’t tackle the question that Illya’s aching to ask. “You have been doing simple extraction jobs for Oleg, you say? Simple extractions shouldn’t involve you having to survive a fight with a group of five, and simple extractions won’t require the CIA to step in a KGB’s operation. You’re lucky that you just got away with bruises and a stab to your abdomen. They could’ve killed you if they wanted to — what were you thinking?”

  


Illya doesn’t know why he’s getting so uncomfortable over Napoleon worrying about him, but he is. It feels too much like the past when Napoleon would grumble about Waverly distributing the tacky roles to Illya, or the times he would scoff in annoyance when Illya did something reckless and gave both him and Gaby a huge scare. It feels like they are alright, and they shouldn’t be.

  


It feels like someone’s stirring him nine kinds of weird inside, and Illya doesn’t like it, not the slightest bit.

  


“Napoleon,” Illya says, and doesn’t allow the other to help as he insists on sitting up on his own. The american gives in, but wedges a pillow in between Illya’s back and the wall anyway like he’s bent on helping. “Why are you here?”

  


“Waverley called; maybe Oleg told him, I don’t know.” Napoleon answers, so casually like it isn’t important that he bothered to come all the way down to take care of him, and leans forward to adjust the blanket that has slipped off Illya. “You’re going to have to—“

  


Illya grabs hold of Napoleon’s arms, and it’s the most effective thing Illya has done so far for Napoleon to look into his eyes, to acknowledge that something doesn’t feel right. 

  


“You don’t have to be here,” 

  


Illya says, and he means it. Napoleon just looks back into his eyes, with a god damned unreadable expression as he cracks a faint smile — which Illya thinks he can read as hurt, but he doesn’t want to. 

  


“I—“ Napoleon tugs his arms away from Illya’s grips, and for a moment Illya almost begins to miss the way the other feels and curses at himself immediately as he watches Napoleon slip away to make space for the doctor who comes in after a quick knock on the door. “— I’ll come back tomorrow.”

  


  


  


—————————— >>>>> ——— >>>> ——— >>>>>> ————————————

  


  


  


Forgiveness is an idea Illya has toyed with, numerously during the nights sleep didn’t want to pay visits to. He thinks of it as something that’s so far away, a dream that’s pretty good to picture in his mind at times. Forgiveness is something tender that binds his heart back together, and makes Illya feel like he’s worthy all over again.

  


Forgiveness is not what Illya deserves.

  


This look that Napoleon’s giving him? The stare that’s flickering with anger as he frowns at him? That, Illya deserves — that’s more like it.

  


“You were just going to leave like that? Illya, you could’ve at least told me that you were getting discharged— why are you doing this?” Napoleon’s exasperation is apparent — it has been showing on his face ever since he intercepted Illya when he’s about to leave the hospital through the backdoor, where a cab is already waiting for him. “Are you trying to avoid me that much? Do you—”

  


Illya doesn’t get the way Napoleon looks. He looks so lost, and confused, as if Illya should accept his concern and walk back into his arms like nothing has ever happened when truth is, nothing can ever be the same — he gets that, he really does. Does Napoleon not?

  


“Do I want to be away from you? Yes, Napoleon, frankly speaking — yes, and I don’t get why aren’t you trying to avoid me at the same time. Do you think we’re good now? Napoleon, didn’t you want me to be gone?” He didn’t mean to sound that agitated, his frustration wrapped together with disbelief as he looks at Napoleon who just seems like he has nothing else to say. Is he — ( _‘don’t think of it,’_ ) — hurt? “You never were that naive, don’t start being one now.”

  


“What are you on about—“

  


“Just because we had sex, doesn’t mean we’re back together, Napoleon.”

  


Illya should’ve turned away the instant those words left his lips — but he’s so bent on watching Napoleon get mad, to hate him like he used to in all the ways he truly deserves, he keeps his eyes on the other and now all he sees is a sheer display of disbelief that’s mixed with hurt, god. He’s _hurting_ Napoleon— Illya’s hand twitches, but he stops himself.

  


“I didn’t think like that, Illya,” Napoleon utters, so gently that it just breaks everything inside Illya that piles up as frustration and anger. This conversation isn’t supposed to go this way — Napoleon isn’t supposed to be speaking like he used to, whenever they got into the fight. “Illya, would you just listen to me?”

  


“No,” Illya shakes his head and watches as Napoleon exhales a deep breath of frustration himself. “No, and you’re going to listen why because I, Napoleon — I’m the man who practically killed _Eric_. Do you remember? Hell, do you still remember, or did you let that night sweep everything away because I didn’t, Napoleon — I got Eric killed, and I got Gaby and Ava killed too so why are you not fighting for them? Why are you still standing right here and showing me concern like I deserve it?”

  


“It was a matter of life or death, Illya, anyone could’ve panicked in that situation and made a choice they didn’t want to without thinking — it’s… not your fault,” Napoleon drags his words off, exhaustion dripping off his words like he doesn’t comprehend why Illya is picking a fight and rubs a hand across his face that shows signs of weariness. “I just want to help if you need me to.”

  


Illya wasn’t expecting the touch to his arm, not at all. He didn’t expect himself to shove it away as soon as his mind registers the touch in his head, and he didn’t expect the surge of vexation that has been brewing within him to be soon boiling with anger instead as his lungs tighten uncomfortably within his chest.

  


“Are you— are actually explaining for me right now? Are you trying to defend me — god, Napoleon, what are you doing?” Illya hears himself hissing as he inhales sharply, a tight squeeze pressing down at his throat. “Do you get that if time rolls back, with me knowing that all of this will happen — I will still do it all over again? God, I— do you see just how much of a selfish monster I am? It never has been a choice I made without thinking, Napoleon, I had a choice to save either you or Eric and I’d pick _you_ all over, and over _again_ in a heartbeat.”

  


Napoleon freezes, and stares at Illya with an incredulous expression like he just uttered complete rubbish, for such a long while until realization dawns on his former partner’s eyes as he connects all the dots together.

  


“ _What_?” He whispers, like he still doesn’t believe any of it. 

  


“Turner owes me,” Illya simply says, like it’s the best explanation, and feels his anger subsides entirely as he too, gets hit by realization that he just told Napoleon the truth. 

  


Napoleon clenches at his jaw, like he’s suppressing his emotions. A side of Illya wants to know how he’s dealing with this — and another side of Illya doesn’t.

  


“But not that much,” Napoleon says, his words more like a conclusion than a question.

  


“Not that much,”

  


Illya affirms, and watches as Napoleon piece every small details together in his mind, takes a step back, like he needs a moment by himself… and snaps. By the time Illya has registered that Napoleon has lunged himself towards him, he already feels the shove to his chest that’s followed by a harsh tug when Napoleon clenches his hands at the fabric of his shirt. 

  


“How could you not tell me— if you say it’s all to protect me, so help me, god, Illya. How could you just lie to me like that? Do you get how conflicting thoughts got for us? I can’t even let myself think at times because nothing was making sense, Illya, how could you just—“ Napoleon breathes, his eyes lit with a newly found anger. “I thought you left us. I thought you abandoned me-“

  


The softness that manages to creep in at the end of Napoleon’s sentence induces an uncomfortable clench at Illya’s heart. 

  


”Don’t, don’t think that things are different now, Napoleon- don’t say it like everything is okay all of a sudden, don’t you dare think it’s fine because I—“

  


“Don’t you dare tell me how to feel, Illya!” Napoleon hisses before pushing at Illya once again, and it’s only from far Illya can see just how perplexed, angered and upset Napoleon is, all at once. “We were supposed to be honest with each other and you know that, Illya — I gave you an opening for the truth and you didn’t take it. You think that you should be hated, and so you made sure that I would, you made sure that Gaby would blame you and god — you had no rights to do that, Illya! You were no one to decide for us and keep the truth all to yourself so how… how dare you, Illya.”

  


Napoleon’s hand is shaking as he brings it up to cover at his eyes, like he can’t look at Illya at the moment. 

  


“You can’t do that, Illya — you can’t just manipulate me into feeling what you want for yourself. This is not how things work,” Napoleon rasps. “You just can’t.”

  


“I’m sorry,” Illya says as he backtracks, giving into his urge to escape yet again unknowingly. It’s alright, he thinks. Napoleon can’t look at him, and he can’t be around Napoleon for a second more without feeling like his entire life is all about making the worst decisions — it’s alright if he goes. In fact, he should, actually, but it’s like Napoleon knows he’s slowly letting that emotion takes over him as the next second, when Illya has his back turned on him, he calls out for him.

  


“Illya—“ 

  


 He doesn’t listen, and picks up the pace he’s walking in until he reaches where his cab has been waiting all along, and slips right into it like it’s going to take him away from everything.

  


“Illya!”

  


  


  


  


(It doesn’t. He thinks of Napoleon throughout the entire ride.)

  


  


  


—————————— >>>>> ——— >>>> ——— >>>>>> ————————————

  


  


  


  


It’s been almost a year since Illya has seen Napoleon. It would’ve been longer if Illya hadn’t exposed his identity accidentally to someone who’s pretty bent on burying him alive so no secrets of his secret association will get out — now Oleg is yelling at him for his incompetence, and Waverly is insisting that he takes refuge with Napoleon in the old safe house of U.N.C.L.E’s that he hasn’t gotten rid of. 

  


It was his seventh time saying no to Waverly’s suggestion until Oleg stepped in and began yelling again. 

  


He wonders how many times Napoleon said no to Waverly before he agrees to staying with Illya for awhile. He wonders if he accepted it right away, relieved at the idea of them seeing each other again. He wonders if he just went along as if nothing matters anymore — like Illya means nothing to him already and so this wouldn’t be a big deal.

  


He wonders, and keeps wondering so much, he didn’t even realize he has reached the safe house already and Napoleon’s staring right at him while holding the door open.

  


Illya swallows unknowingly, and momentarily loses the ability to speak. It doesn’t seem to be much of an issue anyway, since right after Napoleon takes a look at the state that he’s in (escaping a bunch of angry men sometimes comes in the cost of bruises and cuts), and leaves to fetch him a first aid kit.

  


Throughout the entire process of Napoleon patching all of Illya’s wounds up, they didn’t exchange a word. Not even a syllable. 

  


Napoleon didn’t seem like he was intending to talk to Illya, with his eyes never meeting Illya’s, not even once and it might pricks a little in discomfort, buy Illya didn’t think he’s ready for a talk so soon anyway.  So unknowingly, they ended up being comfortable with a silence this uncomfortable.

  


  


  


  


—————————— >>>>> ——— >>>> ——— >>>>>> ————————————

  


  


  


It has been a week since Illya has been stuck in the safe house. Neither he nor Napoleon have decided it’s time to talk, even if the safe house gets pretty boring at times — he knows he can speak for the both of themselves since bored he clearly is (how many times can one truly play chess by himself?), and he knows Napoleon enough to not be wrong on this. 

  


At least Napoleon does the cooking so he has something to kill time with, Illya thinks as he passes by the other to fetch himself a glass of drink — and instinctively catches onto a plate that Napoleon accidentally pushed off the counter with his elbow.

  


Their hands almost touched, Illya can’t help but notice as Napoleon acts fast on his senses too, and Illya thinks, this is it, when they are finally looking at each other — Napoleon just lowers his sight to where their hands are, and gives the plate one hard tug into his grip entirely before turning his back on Illya to continue cooking.

  


Illya eyes the jug of water he was going to pour himself a glass with, pauses, and gets himself a chilled bottle of beer instead.

  


  


—————————— >>>>> ——— >>>> ——— >>>>>> ————————————

  


  


  


Illya wakes up the next morning to see a note stuck to his door.

  


_’Waverly has everything in control. He wants you to stay here for awhile more, just in case.’_

  


He has no idea why, but seeing that note actually twists something within him so uncomfortably, he immediately crushes the paper and tosses it into the bin at the corner. It makes his throat tight, and Illya swears he tried to ignore all of the emotions that are suddenly stirred awake violently. He presses them down as he washes up, pretends everything’s fine, and doesn’t register in his mind the fact that he’s only taking a shower longer than he usually does is all to avoid Napoleon — like he always does.

  


He tries, and he tries, till everything comes back stronger than he has expected. 

  


  


  


—————————— >>>>> ——— >>>> ——— >>>>>> ————————————

  


  


  


“So that’s it?” Illya was supposed to just leave — not stop his steps at the sight of Napoleon so he can lay all of his anger out on the other. He didn’t even realized he was mad at Napoleon, this mad until he has his duffel bag thrown to where the shoe rack is, and looks at his former partner with a look he never thought he would. “We’re just going to not talk, forever, and that’s how we are going to be?”

  


Napoleon looks at him, like he has trampled over all sorts of wrong, before he eyes the duffel bag that spells Illya’s current intention out and laughs.

  


“I don’t know, Illya. You tell me how things are going to be — after all, things only happen the way you want it to be. You didn’t want me to know the truth, so I didn’t. You didn’t want us to talk anymore, so you left, again, and again, and I had to watch you go. You wanted me to blame you, to treat you with full of anger so you could live with your guilt better, my concern ended up in the drain. Now you want us to talk? Sure, Illya, let’s talk. But how long more until you decide that the conversation is too much for you that you walk out on me again? You want to let me know now so I can—“

  


“… How else was I supposed to do, Napoleon? I can’t just stand here looking at you like I didn’t sacrificed someone’s life to get you to be here in the first place. I don’t know what I can do—“

  


“Maybe if you had been honest in the first place, we can actually think of where to go from this horrible mess together, Illya. Maybe you wouldn’t have to constantly find yourself making contradicting decisions all the time and maybe I wouldn’t have to be treated like a fool. Maybe if you had been a little less afraid, a little more braver, we didn’t have to go through that ridiculous phase and maybe, Illya, just maybe, we would have been alright.” 

  


“You talk like it’s easy, Napoleon, well guess what? It’s not—“

  


It’s the wrong word to use, Illya notices, a second too late as Napoleon steps forward with his eyebrows furrowed and his expression full of all the pent up anger and exasperation Illya realizes he must have left the other with ever since the last time they met.

  


“You think it’s easy for me? Illya, you left me alone after telling me the truth when I needed you the most — I needed not to be alone.” Napoleon seethes, as a hand of his clutches at his forehead briefly before his words turn soft, all of a sudden. “But you left anyway, just like how you’re going to leave me now anyway even if I’m going to ask you to… stop and just stay with me.”

  


Illya stays awfully still, and makes sure this time he doesn’t speak before thinking as he keeps his eyes on Napoleon. He’s not so sure what the other’s words have been hinting — no, he knows, but he’s not so sure if Napoleon understands his own words himself. 

  


“Do you know what you’re asking of me, Napoleon?”

  


Napoleon takes a few moments to think over his own words at Illya’s question, eyes never meeting again, until he lifts his head and… _nods_. 

  


Illya thinks he can’t think anymore.

  


“Yes, yes I do — and if this is another of your ‘you should detest and blame me’ talk starting so help me god, Illya, I don’t want it. I know what you did — so don’t you start trying to make me see all the morals we’re breaking by wanting to stay together. I don’t need you to make my decisions for me and tell me what’s the best as if you’re a sinner who doesn’t deserve me because you should know by now, Illya, ever since you made that decision we are in this together.” Illya didn’t even realize he was retreating to where the door is, where escape the easiest option lies, and tries to open it but his hands, his hands are trembling. He tries to hide them, tries to play it off as it’s nothing much, grabs his bag and tugs his boots on, all ready to leave until Napoleon grabs him tight at the side of his arm.” I don’t want you to go — I don’t want you to think you deserve to stray somewhere out there, punishing yourself just because you put your happiness first and god, I know. I know we lost people, people who we love throughout and you may try to link all their deaths together and blame yourself for it but Illya, we’ve lost them. We’ve lost too much, and we shouldn’t have to lose anything anymore. I can’t lose you — _not anymore_.”

  


“Napoleon.”

  


“I’m telling you it’s okay, Illya. Let us face it together — it’s ridiculous, it’s selfish as fuck on top of everything and I know, there will be moments you’ll think of what you have to give up in order to get us here but Illya, hear me out. I am too, and if you stay, if we have another shot, you’ll know I can shoulder this with you so Illya, just… stop running. You ran enough.” Napoleon sounds so soft, so familiarly yet distantly soft as he switches at their positions so he’s the one who’s standing with his back against the door, like it’s going to keep Illya from going away. “ _Stay with me_.”

  


Illya glances at Napoleon who returns a smile so faint, he almost misses it. _This is what he has been wishing for_ , Illya tells himself as he unknowingly brings a hand up to where Napoleon’s face it, and returns a smile just as small before leaning downwards to give the other’s lips a long, and slow kiss. This is what Napoleon usually would never say, and would just express in teasing jabs and snark banters but this time, this time Napoleon voices it all out like it’s what Illya should hear and know.

  


This is what Illya will always hate himself for, but he pulls away, and pushes Napoleon aside so he can leave. He doesn’t miss the look on Napoleon’s eyes when he hears the creak as the door opens, and doesn’t stop even if he hears his former partner’s quiet voice.

  


“I’m going to ask you to stay just this once, Illya — I won’t put myself down like this to ask of you anything ever again. If you leave, Illya, if you leave, that’s it.”

  


“… I know.”

  


“You know, and yet—“

  


“Yet I’m still leaving, yes.” Illya turns and watches how the other’s twitches, like he was going to pull him back, before Napoleon makes up his mind and stuffs both of his hands into his pockets.  “Napoleon, goodbye.”

  


Silence sinks so heavily, Illya feels like his heart’s getting dragged down by it too. But silence is good — he doesn’t think his determination can go through another round of Napoleon’s persuasion. He knows the other makes a point — and the other’s correct, in so many ways that Illya should listen but staying, staying has become such a foreign subject that Illya doesn’t want to be familiar with anymore.

  


“You’re a coward.” 

  


Illya stops his steps midway he’s making his way down the stairs of the front porch, and inhales at the apparent anger that’s laced with Napoleon’s words. But it’s not what made Illya stop his steps in the first place — he hears it, and knows it too well, actually.

  


“You’re a fucking coward, Illya. You’re afraid of facing the consequences of what you did — and so you’re forever stuck in the stage of remorse. You never move on, you think that’s the best for all again but Illya, don’t you see? You’re just a coward till the end and…” 

  


Illya pretends like he’s not hearing anything as he gets onto his motorcycle, and turns on the engine so swiftly, he could’ve driven off in a split second but he doesn’t. 

  


He can’t, the instant he hears the rest of the sentence that took the other so long to finish.

  


“ _So am I,_ Illya.” Napoleon says so quietly, Illya almost missed what took the other so much of a courage to finally admit to. Being alone with those thoughts scares Napoleon just as much too. “Don’t leave me, please.”

Illya clutches at the handles, tight as he lowers at his head.

  


He doesn’t expect the other to understand — and he knows what all of these look like to Napoleon. Illya’sa quitter, and he’s somebody who always chooses what’s convenient for him to deal with his emotions. Run, run, and _run_ even if it meant abandoning everyone who’s important to him, like all of their values have dried out in amidst of Illya trying to deal with his own emotions.

  


Napoleon might think that he’s nothing now, maybe, but what he doesn’t know is that Illya keeps leaving is precisely because of the fact that he would never be nothing to Illya — In fact, it’s the opposite and Illya doesn’t know if a person like him still deserve Napoleon anymore. 

  


Most definitely not, he concludes as with shaky hands, he tries to steer his bike out as quickly as he can — and makes the mistake of turning back to where Napoleon’s standing at, back now turned as the other holds his body close to the opened door like it’s the only support left for him now.

  


Illya shuts his mind off and speeds away as fast as he can— 

  


Till it all hits. 

  


Illya’s heart squeezes so comfortably tight, his insides twist and no, no, _no, he can’t_ , he warns himself, but he can’t get that sight out of his mind, no matter how much he tries, and before he can even talk himself out of anything, he hits the brakes and makes a turn so steep his bike almost crashes into a truck whose driver curses and swears angrily through the open windows — it’s not like he cares, anyway, as all he thinks of that moment is Napoleon.

  


He thinks of the Napoleon who he first lied to, the Napoleon who looked at him with hopefulness and tried to be strong. He thinks of the Napoleon who died a little the afternoon Gaby decided to take her own life together with Ava’s, the Napoleon who finally crumbled and fell. He thinks of the Napoleon who he kissed, pretending it wasn’t affection they were trying to get across to each other, and the Napoleon who let him go hours later. He thinks of the Napoleon who gets stung by the truth that he should’ve known a long time ago, the Napoleon who talked about the lost chance of facing things together. 

  


He thinks of the Napoleon he’s outright hurting today, the Napoleon who he still loves, always will, and thinks that enough is _enough_ — whatever this is that he’s going back for themselves, it’s been long overdue. Napoleon’s right, Illya’s been too much of a coward, and he has _ran enough._

  


He’s done running from Napoleon.

  


So he does as he wants this time, after so long, and his heart feels like it’s going burst, pounding against his ribcage ( _‘please still be there, please_ ’’) as he dashes through the red lights and takes all sorts of reckless turns to the road that’s going to take him back to Napoleon — it’s all going to take him back to _home_. 

  


  


  


  


—————————— >>>>> ——— >>>> ——— >>>>>> ————————————

  


  


When Illya gets back to where the safe house is, Napoleon’s still there. He’s there in amidst of all the mess that was never there while Illya was still in the house — glasses were never broken, furniture was never shoved around, chess pieces were never overturned, and the strong smell of alcohol never lingered across the room like a perfume. 

  


And as Illya steps closer, pressing his weight onto the glass shards which scratch at the floor, Napoleon looks towards the door and stills.

  


“What are you doing back here?” Napoleon’s words are dripping with coldness and weariness as he turns away, briefly just so he can wipe at his eyes with hands that Illya spots shallow cuts at. “If you left, don’t come back—“

  


“I’m sorry—“

  


“You never are, you just want to feel better over your own mistakes, so you say that but you never are. You just do what you want, then leave, leave, and leave like the runner you always are and don’t even give a fucking shit about the people you are leaving behind.”

  


“I really am, this time, Napoleon I— I’m really sorry. I see it now, okay? I have been a coward, but I don’t want to, not anymore. I want to stay,” Illya explains as his approaching steps to Napoleon only got the other retreating further in return. “I want to stay with you, Napoleon. I’m sorry I even chose to leave in the first place I— hurt you, I know.”

  


Napoleon scoffs, so immediately it sounds like a disguise and a pretence instead and Illya just takes that as a sign to take further steps close till he’s near, a feet behind the other before he gently brushes his hand with the other’s, cautiously. Napoleon doesn’t pull away, and Illya stops holding at his breath. 

  


“Napoleon,”

  


“I don’t know, Illya. You don’t just leave someone like that and expect everything to be okay just because you feel okay with the idea now—“

  


“I’m sorry,” Illya repeats, and he’s not just repeating it because it’s the only word he can say. He’s saying it over and over again because he is — he doesn’t think he can get over that hurting expression on the other’s face anytime soon. “I’m so sorry — give me one chance please. One more, Napoleon. One last chance,”

  


Illya keeps his voice soft and pleading as he slowly takes Napoleon’s hand in his entirely — and when the other doesn’t do anything to pull away, Illya tugs a little so he can use the other hand of his to cup at a side of Napoleon’s cheeks, to let their eyes meet again. Napoleon won’t look at him initially, blue eyes darting to the sides, his eyelashes wet with tears from before that scratches guilt inside of him, even as Illya gets a little braver, and dips closer, pressing his forehead against Napoleon’s.

  


“Please,” He whispers.

  


“I thought I was going to be alone again,” Napoleon still doesn’t look at him. “Till it’s another month, or maybe years till I see you again just so you can walk out on me again—“

  


“I’m staying, Napoleon. I’m staying with you this time, I’m so sorry for before just — please, I want to stay, just like I always do. Let me stay, Napoleon, tell me to stay.”

  


Illya squeezes at Napoleon’s hand, and feels the corners of his lips begin to lift when Napoleon squeezes back, just as gently as he says the following words after a long silence. 

  


 

 

 

 

 

 

“… _Stay_.”  


 

  


—————————— >>>>> ——— >>>> ——— >>>>>> ————————————

 

  


  


  


It’s not a bed of roses afterwards — but it’s nothing they haven’t been expecting.

  


Illya still wakes up in the middle of the night now and then whenever the nightmares strike, burning bloody corpses and bones-deep guilt into his mind. Sometimes he lets Napoleon join him at the table as he relives everything by talking about _them_ , prying old wounds open so they can heal better. Sometimes he doesn’t, and locks Napoleon out so he can put the companion of a fine scotch to good use. Sometimes it’s Napoleon who’s dealing with the demons instead, and sometimes he doesn’t even say anything and just puts away the necklace he has Ava, Gaby and Eric’s names engraved on it till the haunting thoughts get flushed bland (but for how long more, no one knows).

  


Sometimes when they laugh, they _laugh_ , and then they kiss. Sometimes they laugh, and in amidst of laughing, they think of the people who could’ve been smiling in their places, and they stop. They stop, but they don’t let their hands stray far. Sometimes it gets rather tough, and those are the dreadful days, the dark days that consist of emotions that are always particularly hard to deal with for them, but they make sure to never let things get out of hand. They make sure to never leave, and just stay, and of course, everything seems rather jarred and bruised here and there sometimes, but whenever Waverly calls, and discreetly checks with them to see if they are still good — they always look at each other, before they answer this, like always:

  


  


‘Yea, still good.’

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Okay, I know I didn't go into details about Ava and Gaby's deaths at all - it was a little too dark for me to go into it and write the entire process of how she eventually drove herself to death, so I chose not to (it's postpartum depression). :c But anyway, hopefully this piece turns out alright, ha, because omg this is like my c h i l d and my attempt on writing angst. (and abrupt ending hurrya hahahah im sorry omg)


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